CHAPTER TEN
Whitney
H e showed when I wasn’t banking on him showing.
He arrived with a huge grin, a bag full of Miami Mayhem swag that had all of the kids squealing and standing taller, and a swagger that had the kids trying to emulate it.
He stayed and has been great with the kids—incredible, really—while being an absolute royal pain in my ass.
He’s here, on the pitch, with his infuriating good looks, his natural skill on the ball anyone would kill to have, and those eyes that taunt and tease.
“He’s better with them than I expected him to be,” Martin says.
“Way better,” I agree as Hardy shows the kids some foot skills they can practice in small spaces like their bedrooms.
“After all those bullshit demands, I figured he’d be a total prick to the kids. He wasn’t. He isn’t. I mean...at least there’s that.”
“I know,” I murmur as Hardy moves off the ball and wows the kids with a rainbow kick.
But he’s also an ass.
Purple Gatorade is the only color he’ll drink?
“Run to the shops and grab me one, will ya ?”
Dream on.
“Decent pitch but what if I don’t like goals facing that way? I need them redirected before I can talk to the kids. Be a good girl and move them, won’t you?”
The man is a fucking diva to the nth degree. It’s not my place to ruin the kids’ opinions of their idol so I won’t, but I’ll sit my ass right here and stew about it all fucking day and wonder just how I’m going to bite my tongue for the rest of the week and not put the prick in his place.
Even worse, he’s charming. Like dazzling smile and quiet words of encouragement type charming that doesn’t mesh with the attitude he gives me when it’s just the two of us.
I watch him with the kids while hearing his playful words on the voicemail he left me the other night and try to square that he’s the same man.
He’s not.
He can’t be.
And yet . . .
Shame. I was rather looking forward to pushing your buttons.
Is that what he’s doing? Pushing my buttons? Purposely pissing me off because he doesn’t want to be here? But why? I told him not to come here yet he insisted.
That’s on him.
He can be mad at me all he wants, be difficult all he wants—I told him not to come.
And yet he’s here. An icon to the kids and a nuisance to me.
Because I feel like I’m looking at two different men—one I despise and the other I think I could actually like.
There is no liking. There is no wanting. You can find the man attractive, Whitney, but that’s it. Nothing else.
Not a damn thing.
And even if you wanted to, he’s way the fuck out of your league in so many ways it’s impossible to count.
I twist my lips as he ruffles the head of the little boy standing beside him while instructing a line of other kids as they run through the drill he’s set up. I’m a person who tries to find the best in people. At least I am now, which is a huge change from the skeptical teenager who first landed here. It was Patrick who taught me there are good people in the world who will persist until you believe them. Trust them. And I’ve learned that most people try to put their best foot forward from the get-go. Those who don’t? They’re not worth my time, but for some reason, I’m trying so hard to find the best in Hardy.
Maybe I want him to be what the kids want him to be so they’re not disappointed yet again.
“You guys ready for one of my favorite drills?” he asks the group of one hundred or so kids. Thank God I have enough volunteer staff to help wrangle and facilitate Hardy being here because I suspect we’ll have the full two hundred academy members here tomorrow once the word gets out that Alexander Hardy is here for the week.
Maybe that will mean some sign-ups for more players. With that comes a whole other host of headaches for my already slim staff that’s overworked and underpaid.
But it’s a headache I’d welcome. One that I’d gladly pick up the slack on if it meant more kids were here and out of trouble than out there eyeing the prospect of it.
“Awesome. Love the enthusiasm, you guys. Okay. So far today we’ve worked on foot skills and agility. Now it’s time to talk about defending.”
A quiet groan can be heard through the crowd.
“I know. There is nothing sexy— er attractive about defending, but it’s a necessity that every player must learn how to do. So, who’s going to volunteer to help me demonstrate the proper way to do the drill?”
A slew of arms shoot in the air at lightning speed and the word “Me” is said so frequently it’s almost like white noise around us. The kids bounce on their toes all hoping for Hardy to see and select them. He’s now solidified his idol status.
He looks over all of them and then turns to meet my eyes. He lifts his eyebrows and smiles. “How about it?”
“What? You need more purple Gatorade?” I say, my words dripping with saccharine.
His grin is a devastating flash of sex appeal, and the way he wields it, he knows it. “No. It seems now that I had that flavor, I don’t think I like it anymore.”
“If that’s not a euphonism for something, I don’t know what is,” I mutter under my breath.
But he hears every word no doubt, by the widening of his smile and the gleam in his eye. It’s like the man is impenetrable and if I were trying to gain some type of upper hand, by the way he saunters toward me, I have a sinking feeling I just may have lost it.
Not sure how, but I did.
“Thank you for being the volunteer to help me demonstrate this next drill,” he says, taking a few steps closer to me, something I have steadfastly avoided the entire time he’s been here today.
“I didn’t volunteer. Far from it.”
He leans forward, his lips by my ear, the warmth of his breath feathering over my skin, and the subtle scent of his cologne in my nose.
And there it is . The little zing under my skin I felt when I looked up from my desk to see him standing in the doorway of my office this morning.
“I’m teaching defense. It’ll look much better with you playing man-on-man coverage than me against some ten-year-old minors. Perception always matters and as a public figure, it’s been drilled in my head to never put myself in a situation where pictures can be taken and intentions can be misconstrued. So that means it’ll be you. Assuming you know how to handle a football.”
“Are you actually questioning if I can play?” I ask as he steps back. Fury may be racing through my veins, but I almost sag in relief at the respite from his proximity.
And I hate myself for it.
Just as I hate that his accent affects me. The little nuances to it and the way he emphasizes certain words. Or how my pulse quickens when he looks my way. Or the fact that I want him to take notice of me even though I keep telling myself I don’t.
I don’t like men like him. Ones who are all show in front of an audience and complete asses once the limelight is stripped away. Men who only do things when it’s to their benefit.
And yet days ago you once hoped for his attention.
“You staring at me isn’t going to get this drill taught,” Hardy says, interrupting my thoughts and my sudden notice of how perfectly sculpted his thighs are beneath the white soccer shorts he has on. Yes, the shorts are long, but they still showcase how incredibly fit he is. “The audience is rapt and waiting.”
Defending means closeness.
Proximity.
Means my ass pushing back against him while we bump against each other and struggling a bit.
A lot like sex with clothes on.
Fucking hell.
And while he has a very valid point about not wanting to put himself in an innocent yet easily misconstrued compromising position with a minor, I sure as shit don’t want to be in one with him either.
“I have other things to do,” I say, the words feeling like they’re being ripped from my throat.
“You can’t be afraid of little ol’ me,” he murmurs. Completely innocent words and yet they feel like a seductive sheen as they slide over my skin.
“I’m sure one of the other coaches would be more than willing to—”
“Guys,” he says to the crowd of kids standing on the side of the pitch and staring at the two of us, curious about our conversation. “Don’t you want to see Coach Whitney participate in some of these drills? Don’t you think she should help me out here?”
Hands still stretched way in the air begin to waver, the flutter of fingers stilling, as the idea of me going head-to-head with Hardy hits them.
“No. Really.” I sputter the words and forget his reasoning in a moment of panic. “Let one of the kids—”
“Coach. Coach. Coach.” The chant begins among the ranks as the kids most likely realize how exciting it would be for their coach to get schooled by one of the best in the world.
Each chant adds another weight to my shoulders and another chip in my resolve.
“Okay. Fine.” I hold my hands up and walk toward him on the pitch as the kids grow antsy with anticipation. “What’s the drill?”
“How to defend a ball in the corner to kill the clock,” he says, our eyes meeting and my skin prickling.
“Seriously?” I ask in reflex, to which he chuckles.
“Seriously.”
Defend a ball in the corner. That means me standing there with him pressed up against me—body to body, my back to his front. My job is to try and keep the ball confined while he tries to get it away. A lot of rubbing against each other, of tussling, of being in each other’s space.
Soccer foreplay at its finest. Not .
“C’mon, Coach. Show him what you’ve got,” Rodrigo shouts, and to my dismay, another round of “Coach” starts being chanted, giving me no chance to back out.
I approach Hardy, my eyes daggers of dislike, and step to where he’s placed the ball in the corner. His expression is arrogant. He motions to the ball. “Be my guest. Since it seems you’re already on the defensive with me, this would be a natural progression, don’t you think?”
“You think you’re cute, don’t you?” I say under my breath as I take up a defensive stance.
“There are much better things to call me than cute,” he says quietly as he takes up the space behind me. The kids begin to push their way down to the edge of the pitch so they can get closer.
“You’re an—”
“You have ears listening to whatever it is you were just going to call me, Coach,” he says beneath his chuckle, his voice and his body way closer than I realized. “You might want to be nice to the guest superstar you have here in your midst.”
I snort and roll my eyes but look up to see pairs and pairs of eyes on me. Shit. Guess he’s right.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.
He steps in closer. “Already have more than enough of them when it comes to you.” And then as if this entire private conversation never happened, he turns to the kids. “So we have our offensive player—that’s Coach here—and then me, the defensive player. The goal for Coach is to keep the ball here in the corner without going out while I try and strip it from her. The objective? To waste time. Coach’s team is up one goal, the half is almost over, and the last thing she wants is to give me a chance to get the ball so I can score.”
“Because you will score,” someone says out loud, earning a slew of chuckles.
“Correct. I will score,” Hardy says. It’s hard not to consider that kind of confidence sexy. “So the question is, how do you defend against this? How do you get the ball away so you can give your team the best chance possible?”
He says something next, but I’m not sure what it is because the minute his hand rests on my hip and the warmth of his body hits my back, I stop hearing. The buzz in my ears and the hum racing through my veins is enough to test my sanity. The man creates aches where no part of me warrants aching.
Not in front of the players.
Not during a boring, run-of-the-mill soccer drill.
Not even because his hand is on me.
And yet, my body stirs in ways it hasn’t in a long time.
Defending was never my strong suit—scoring was—but my years of training kick in as I begin to protect the ball at my feet. I bend my knees and stick my ass out to push him off me as much as possible, to create space between him and the ball so that I can keep it there and away from him. His body ghosts mine. Every long, hard, corded muscle of his is pressing against me as we play a strategic game of keep away.
The kids’ cheers break through my fog of concentration despite my inability to discern which one of us exactly they’re rooting for.
I’d like to think me, but I highly doubt it as Hardy’s firm thighs trap mine and his feet begin trying to poke at the ball and push it out of bounds.
I hold my own for a minute or so but I have no doubt the man is just toying with me for the sake of the drill.
He instructs the kids, completely unfazed by the effort he’s putting in, while I’m panting from the exertion.
“Cage your opponent in with your hips and then try and kick between their legs to poke the ball out of bounds. Try not to foul them, but remember, the longer they have the ball, the less time you have to even the score.”
I defend the ball for a few more fleeting seconds before Hardy does what I know he’s capable of and strips the ball away from me with an ease that’s almost comical.
The twinge in my knee comes instantly. I should have expected it as it’s prone to hurt when I pivot. I am so preoccupied with Hardy, with everything that is him, and maybe with trying to prove my worthiness and soccer acumen to all around us that I forget about it for the briefest of seconds.
But that lightning-hot sear of pain that shoots up my thigh is proof of it.
My gasp is drowned out by the players cheering Hardy on, and I’m grateful for it as the last thing I want is any focus to be on me.
That and my ego might just be a little bruised that I couldn’t hold out longer against him.
But I know I’m all but forgotten when he turns on a dime and strikes the ball, hitting it into the net from the most obscene of angles. Effortlessly .
The students roar as he throws his head back, laughs, and then takes a dramatic bow for them.
Like he needs his ego fed any more.
But when I turn toward the students, all I see are ear-to-ear grins, expressions of joy and excitement. And briefly, they get to forget who they are and what happens outside of this academy—the burdens or fears that hold them back through no fault of their own—because Hardy just showed them possibility and opportunity in one single kick.
I may not exactly like Alexander Hardy, but I will forever be grateful to him for this moment for them.
It’s then I see the media crew set up on the center line of the pitch. Their cameras are angled our way and following the movement of the players.
When did that happen?
And then when I start to walk toward them, do I notice the crowd that’s gathered just beyond the outer periphery of the chain-link fence—men, women, kids. A majority of them are holding their cell phones up, snapping pictures.
Word must have spread and now everyone’s coming out to see the incredible Alexander Hardy.
Ugh for me. Yay for the club.
But the fact that all of this has been happening—a crowd, a news crew—and I didn’t notice is further proof of what I already knew.
Alexander Hardy is a distraction I don’t need.
Not his body against mine.
Not his disarming smile.
Not his ridiculous commands and endless flirting.
Not his arrogance.
Not his nonchalance about what being here means to the kids.
“Miss Barnes?” the news reporter calls out to me, or at least I assume that’s who she is since she’s holding a microphone in her hand.
“Hi. Yes. Can I help you?”
“We’re here with the local ABC affiliate. Ariana from Miami Mayhem invited us out here to film some of Hardy’s interaction with the kids. I’d also like to learn more about the program here at—uh—”
“Prestige Soccer Academy,” I finish for her.
“Right. Yes. Prestige Soccer Academy,” she says with a halfhearted smile as she glances down at her notepad. No doubt she’d rather be reporting on real news instead of about a local soccer club. “Would you mind telling me a bit more about your program and what it means to have Alexander Hardy out here spending time with you?”